After
by KriegMachine
Summary: Where was our Hawk after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.?
1. Prologue- After New York

_A/N: Hello everyone! I'm sure that, like myself, many of you have been wondering where in the world Hawkeye was during Captain America: The Winter Soldier. I figured, since we won't be finding out until May when Age of Ultron hits theaters, that I would put in my two cents on what I think he was up to during and following the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.. There will be some tie-ins to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (as I wish that the Hawk might pop up on the show sometime). I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think! -Krieg_

_Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers, Clint Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D., or anything else Marvel related. (Though, like most, I wish I did!) I rated this T, just in case of language. I mean, it's Clint, so who knows!  
_

**AFTER**

Prologue

After New York

He could hear the squeaky wheel of the med cart from down the hall. With a groan, Clint Barton leaned back in his chair, calmly resting his arms on the table in front of him.

Behind him, Clint heard the twist and click of the key in the lock, followed by a squeal as the metal door was pushed inward. There was a rattle and an additional squeak from the wheel as the cart was rolled into his room.

"Good morning, Agent Barton," a deep, yet chipper voice greeted from behind his back. "How are you feeling today?"

With a grim smile, just for himself, Clint replied, "Well, I was feeling quite pleasant this morning. I nearly finished the puppy's face." He reached across his table, picked up a piece, and fit it into the unfinished puzzle that was spread out across the table in front of him. A Labrador lolled its tongue out from the jigsaw, its face nearly complete, lacking only one eye. Clint spotted another piece and picked it up, holding it between two fingers. His gaze never leaving the piece, he continued, "But then you came along and now I'm just thinking up ways to murder you with this puzzle piece."

"Well, good to know you're feeling better," the voice replied.

"I'm already up to 16."

"Only 16? I think you're slipping, agent."

At that, Clint turned around in his chair to meet the gaze he could feel boring into his back. In the dark lamp light, he could see that the orderly was a familiar face today. A behemoth of a man whose muscular build could put even Thor himself to shame, Louis, as Clint had come to know him, stared back with a small smile. His harsh jawline was softened by the smile and his eyes crinkled pleasantly as Clint scowled back at him.

"Is that some sort of dig? I thought you guys couldn't mock the crazy patients."

And that was what Clint was. At one point he was a circus star, then a soldier, an assassin, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., even an Avenger, for a little while. Now he was just another crazy patient locked up in a psych ward.

It all started with Loki. That bastard has beamed himself into the heart of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, murdered a dozen agents, and then made off with the Tesseract and Clint Barton as his own personal minion. Mind control is a bitch. Loki had just tapped him with his glowing stick of wonders and the next thing he knew, Clint had woken up with a growing bump on his forehead and the knowledge that he'd helped in an attack on the Helicarrier, one that had killed countless agents, including one of the best men he had ever known, Phil Coulson. If that wasn't enough to drive a man mad, Clint didn't know what was.

And yet, he'd pushed past the lingering barbs of mind control that had prodded his brain with every thought and helped a god, a green rage monster, a 70 year old World War II hero, and a billionaire in a metal suit fight off Loki's army of aliens. Perhaps that should have been a sign that he was losing his marbles.

But, Clint'd kept going. He'd ignored the itch in the back of his head, the feeling that something was still lurking within his mind, toying with his thoughts, sifting through his memories. He'd eaten victory shawarma with the gang and sent Loki off into the universe with his brother. He hadn't realized that his mind still had nightmares tucked away, a parting gift from Loki.

It happened in Manila. A simple, routine op as cover fire for an 0-8-4 investigation. Fury had wanted to ease him back into field work after all of the mind control shit, so Clint had allowed himself to be shipped off to the Philippines with three rookie agents, their handler, and a SWAT team. He hadn't wanted to piss off the boss. He'd been perched up on a high rise, bow in hand, carefully watching one of the rookies scan an orb that caused people to shrink in size after contact, when his head had exploded. The most intense pain he'd ever experienced (topping gun shots, stab wounds, and two snapped legs from a six story free fall) burst from the back of his mind. Images flashed before his eyes; him putting a bullet in Fury's chest, a knife held at Natasha's throat, Loki thrusting his scepter through Coulson's heart. Clint felt his legs give out as he'd crashed onto the roof, but his mind was elsewhere, trapped in nightmares he had no control over.

After the op had ended and the S.H.I.E.L.D. handler was unable to make contact with Clint, the team had clambered up to his rooftop to find him withering on the ground, his head grasped in his hands, shouting, "No, no, no!" It had taken another half hour before they'd brought him back to reality, and as soon as Clint found himself back home in New York, they'd shipped him off to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own personal mental institute in Maine. Apparently, agents going mad weren't nearly as uncommon as one might think.

He was being treated for schizophrenia, major PTSD, and anxiety. So basically, he spent all day playing solitaire and doing puzzles while cheerful orderlies pumped him full of pills and doctors asked him "how he was feeling that day".

Louis smiled slightly as he abandoned his cart and moved over to Clint's window. "No, we can't mock the crazy people. Only you," he replied in his deep, good natured voice, throwing the curtains open and letting the sunlight flood the room. Clint threw a hand over his unadjusted eyes and grunted.

"You don't think I'm crazy?" he asked with a low chuckle and a smile of his own.

Louis moved back to the med cart and started rifling around. "Nope," he replied, returning with a small, paper cup filled with a half dozen multicolored pills. "But I do think you could use the R and R." He handed the cup over to Clint.

"Thanks Lou."

"For what, the pills or not thinking you're crazy?"

"Both, I suppose," Clint said, raising the tiny cup up in a small toast. He lowered it, waiting for Louis to head back to his cart and move on to other patients.

With a pointed look at Clint, Louis sighed, crossing his arms, and turned to look out the window at the mountain lake the mental institute was nestled next to. Clint followed his gaze to the tall, lush pines that waved back and forth and the ripples of the waves on the lake. It had been a long time since he'd felt the wind.

Noticing Clint's interest, Louis said, "Agent Barton, you've been here over a year and a half. You must be dying to get out of here" -he gestured at the bland, white room- "and back in the field."

Clint didn't say anything.

"You and I both know you haven't been taking your meds."

No reply.

"There must be something out there you're still willing to fight for? Something to get back to? But you have to let us help you first."

Clint looked down, at the puzzle, the pills, then back up at the orderly. "Yeah, I guess there must be something." He knocked the pills back like a strong shot of whiskey. The paper cup was crushed in his fist. "I just don't know what it is."

* * *

"So how are you feeling today, Clint?"

"Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. even have this place?"

"That's not an answer Clint."

"Neither is that. But honestly, let's be realistic here Gloria. What's the point?" Clint looked up from where he had been fiddling with his medical wristband and stared intently at the doctor.

"Clint, call me Dr. Muniz." The woman gave him a tiered look; they'd had this conversation many times before. She rested her arm on the arm of her chair and pressed her fingers into her forehead, rubbing methodically. Clint had a feeling she got a lot of headaches from him.

Ignoring her, he continued, "S.H.I.E.L.D. ships us out here, but what do they really expect to happen? Sure, you might cure us. Sure, someday we might be able to live within society without having mental breakdowns. But, it's not like S.H.I.E.L.D.'s just going to hand us our jobs back. 'Hey Hawkeye, glad to see you're out of the looney bin, how about we head over to the Middle East and infiltrate some terrorist cells.'"

"Clint-"

"No, they're never going to trust us to do our jobs. But they can't just release us into the wild. To live in suburbs and drive our kids around in minivans and host block parties. No. So, my question again, Gloria; why does S.H.I.E.L.D. even have this place? Why aren't we terminated the minute we become useless?"

Finished with his rant, Clint leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, intently glaring at the woman seated across from him. Dr. Gloria Muniz straightened in her chair, smoothing out the fabric of her floral dress. Unlike the orderlies and nurses, who always wore the same white scrubs embroidered with the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem, Dr. Muniz wore bright, colorful clothing. It made her look kind, approachable, easier to talk to. Except for Clint. But he enjoyed making everyone's lives more difficult, so he never openly spoke to her. It didn't really matter what she wore.

"Do you feel like you deserve to be terminated Clint?" Dr. Muniz asked in a calm, quiet voice. She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and picked up her pen from where it lay on the table.

Clint looked around the room, studying the one way mirror along the wall, behind which he knew the discussion was being videotaped and a half dozen neurologists and twice as many psychologists were analyzing every word he said.

"Maybe." Clint shrugged nonchalantly.

Dr. Muniz scribbled something down in Clint's folder, a three-inch-thick monstrosity. With an irritated frown, she asked, "And why do you feel that way?"

Clint turned away from the mirror and let his gaze fall back on the doctor. He raised his eyebrows condescendingly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, Gloria, we've both seen the footage from the Helicarrier. You're the psychologist. What do you think?"

Dr. Muniz sighed, capped her pen, closed his folder, and pushed everything off to the side. "Clint, of the countless times we've spoken to one another, the conversation has always been the same. You state the impracticality of our institute; you claim that agents like yourself should be eliminated. Now, I'm not Director Fury, but clearly, he has some reason for wanting you to recover. And if that's apparent to me, I think we both know that it's very apparent to you." Dr. Muniz stood, picking up Clint's folder, and turned towards the door. "Something in that stubborn mind of yours is telling yourself that you don't deserve to live. That if you were to recover, you don't deserve to be allowed back into S.H.I.E.L.D.. As I've told you before, I believe you feel guilty for what took place on the Helicarrier. But you treat these sessions like an interrogation, and as a good agent would, you say nothing. So, I really don't know what's happening in your head."

She walked towards the door and was halfway out the room when Clint finally spoke. "You're wrong," he said, his voice strong and confident. "I was being mind controlled by a psychotic alien. I didn't attack the Helicarrier, he did. _Loki _did. You want me to talk? Well, write this down."

Clint looked up, his gaze empty and emotionless, and stared into Dr. Muniz's eyes. "I'm as good of an agent as I've ever been. What happened on the Helicarrier wasn't me. I don't feel guilty."

And no matter how good of an agent Clint was, they both knew he was lying.

* * *

Clint was in complete lock down. Everything he did was monitored. His diet, his respiratory rate, his brain activity. If he wanted to shower, he had to be escorted. If he needed a new puzzle, the nurses had to sign it out to him.

He had no contact with the world outside of the institute. No television, radio, Internet. No way to know that everything the world had ever known was changing.

He didn't know that 700 miles away the Triskelion in D.C. was under attack. He didn't know that Captain America and the Widow were in a locked battle against an assassin, the Winter Soldier. He didn't know about Hydra.

But he was about to.


	2. After Hydra

_A/N: Hello __everyone! Chapter 1, tada! Thank you to everyone who read and followed! To answer Ms. Hawkeye, yes, I am continuing this! The voice inside my head is predicting six or seven chapters, but we'll see where we end up. Updates will be pretty random, depending on when I finish things and find time to post. _

_This chapter has some references to stuff from Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., and a nod to the Marvel comics. Naturally, I don't own Clint, the Avengers, AoS, Marvel, or any of that jazz, I'm just borrowing them! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Be sure to follow and comment to let me know what you think! -Krieg_

**AFTER**

Chapter 1

After Hydra

Clint was trapped in a nightmare.

Ever since he'd started training in the circus, this dream had plagued his sleep. Before he and his brother began working with Swordsman and he started training archery with Trickshot, Clint had gotten tightrope lessons from Carson's high wire performers. The heads of the troop, a married couple, had taken him under their wing when he and Barney had shown up at the circus, begging for work.

Despite his uncanny natural talent for balancing on the wire, Clint had spent months practicing close to the ground. But quickly he became a master, performing all sorts of feats up on the highest wire in the big top, able to make an audience gasp and applaud. If Trickshot hadn't started training him, Clint had no doubt that he'd have become a regular in the high wire troop.

The dreams had started not long after he began his archery training. They always began the same, the first couple of steps out onto the tightrope. A sudden unsteadiness would overwhelm him at first, but he quickly found his balance and he was able to walk across the wire as easily as he would walk down a sidewalk. The fact that the big top had no net to catch its performers if they were to fall didn't faze Clint one bit.

He would walk about halfway across the wire, his bare feet, bruised from his constant practice on the rough wire, gripping the tightrope. He'd balance on one leg, shifting his center of gravity, relishing the feeling of floating in the air. Weightlessness.

Then he'd see him, a dark figure on the far platform, hovering near the wire's end. He could never make out the person's face at first; they were nothing but a shadow with a glint of metal in their hand. Then the shadows would melt away. At first it was his father, an axe in hand, the same hate filled look on his face that Clint saw everyone he got a beating. When he was older, the figure transformed into the Swordsman, with one of his performance blades twirling loosely in his grip.

But in the last two years, it hadn't been his father or the Swordsman who haunted his dreams. Now it was Loki, holding his scepter, a blue glow, the same one Clint had seen in his own eyes during the Helicarrier footage, filling his eyes.

Clint forgot that he was on the wire, his sharp eyes trained on the god in front of him. His heart had stopped beating in his chest, his hand started to tremble slightly. His mind knew it was a dream but had decided to ignore that knowledge and instead paralyze itself in fear. He'd never experienced this feeling in real life, but in his dreams, it was a constant.

Loki chuckled, kneeling down by the edge of the platform. He looked up at Clint with a twisted smile. In an all too familiar voice, he said, "You have heart."

Then, with his scepter he sliced through the tightrope like butter, the taut rope went slack, and Clint fell.

* * *

Clint always woke up calm. No matter how awful, how dramatizing the dream, he didn't suddenly start breathing heavily or flinch awake. He simply opened his eyes.

That didn't mean he wasn't rattled. He could feel the slight tremble that passed through his hands and the sweat that trickled down his back and forehead.

Sitting up and running a shaking hand through his hair, that had grown far too long in his time in the institute, Clint let the memory of the dream haunt him for a few seconds, before clearing it from his mind. Loki's eyes, his God-awful laugh, the gut wrenching sensation of falling. All of it pushed away as though it had never happened. With the dream now gone, his thoughts drifted to where he was and all that had recently happened.

It had been four days since he'd seen anyone. Anyone. Doctors had stopped coming to run tests, nurses had stopped coming with prescriptions. Hell, orderlies had stopped coming with food. If his room hadn't had a small bathroom with a sink attached to it, he would probably have died of dehydration by now.

Something had happened. Perhaps starvation was the newest cure for crazy, but Clint had his doubts. No, something had happened, and all Clint could really do was wait to find out what the hell it was.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Clint reached down to the ground and picked up his shirt where it lay in a crumpled ball. He sniffed it and decided that after four days without a shower, his nose would thank him if he decided to go topless for a while. Instead, he used it to wipe the sweat off of his face and torso and then tossed it back onto the floor.

He made his way over to the bathroom, just a toilet and a sink, and turned on the faucet. Using his hand as a cup, he swallowed a few mouthfuls of water to quench his parched throat and washed his face. He wished he had a mirror, but the bathroom came without one. The only glimpses he had had of himself had been in the one way mirror in the room where he and the psychologists spoke. He looked shabbier every time had saw himself, his hair growing shaggy, a stubbly beard on his face, tiered bags under his eyes. He could only presume he looked exactly the same now.

Exhaling deeply, Clint returned to his current project. By the second day of solitude, he'd realized that something was up. Despite the fact that it had to have been close to two years since he'd arrived, Clint had never tried to leave. No escape plans. But when no one showed up for a brain scan or new anxiety drugs or dinner, he'd instantly started to look for a way out.

There were bars on the window and the metal door was always sealed shut with what was probably the most intricate lock S.H.I.E.L.D. could buy. With nothing to even attempt to pick the lock with, the only viable option Clint could find was an air vent on the ceiling of the bathroom. He'd worked tirelessly the past few days, trying to twist the bolts off and open the vent. His fingers were worked raw from trying to pry the bolts from their tightly screwed position. It was slow, tedious work. He'd managed to remove two and loosen a third, but his fingers ached and bled constantly. Despite this, Clint had his doubts. Even if he did manage to remove the cover, the vent was narrow and the chances that he could actually fit inside were slim. He may be a shorter man, but he didn't lack width, most of which came from his muscular shoulders and arms.

But, it kept him busy, so Clint pulled the chair from the main room back under the vent and hoisted himself up to work.

After an hour or two of work, he had removed the third screw and had just started to work on the fourth when he heard it. The scrape of a key in the lock of his door.

Hastily, Clint jumped down to the floor and wandered out of the bathroom. Keeping his distance from the door, he watched as it swung open. Louis, the orderly who had always been so kind to Clint, stood on the other side. But this time, the hulking man was not wearing the white scrubs of the institute's orderlies, but a black tactical vest, cargo pants, and baseball cap. He was flanked by two men, large but not quite as muscular as Louis, dressed the same way. Clint's sharp eyes took this in quickly, including the handguns all three had strapped to their thighs.

Louis gave Clint a smile, whatever friendliness it had once possessed now gone, and walked into the room, folding his arms behind his back. The other two men remained outside.

"Good morning Agent Barton. How are you feeling today?"

Clint stared at him warily, his eyebrows furrowed. He'd heard that phrase hundreds of times. He'd known this man for two years. But something felt wrong. The way Louis held himself, how he spoke, and the light in his eyes, all of it was different.

"I'm a little hungry," Clint replied, not moving from where he stood. Only his eyes moved, following Louis as he stalked across the room.

Louis chuckled quietly. "Yes, I'm sure you are. We're very sorry about that. We had some complications."

"Care to tell me about it?" Clint was on edge; his muscles coiled tightly, his training and instincts ready to react at any moment.

"You'll find out soon enough."

And if that wasn't enough to set off the alarms in Clint's head, what he saw next was. On the right sleeve of Louis's shirt, embroidered in red, was an emblem of a red skull, with eight tentacles sticking out from the bottom and surrounded by a red circle. Clint had learned all about that symbol in his basic training. Back in World War II, the Nazi science and research division. An organization that was supposed to have been destroyed by S.H.I.E.L.D. decades ago.

In a quiet voice, Clint breathed out one word. "Hydra."

Then he moved. Despite the fact that he'd been sedentary for the past two years, his strength and natural reflexes had not left him. He lunged forward, striking the large man with a left cross. Louis's head snapped to the side and Clint felt the crunch of cartilage under his fist as the man's nose broke. Not giving him a second to recover, Clint grabbed Louis's forearm, twisted it behind his back, got a firm grip on the back of his vest, and forced the man's whole body forward, slamming the his head into the nearby table. Louis crumpled, whether knocked out or dazed Clint did not know. He had two other problems to deal with.

The goons had entered the room the minute Clint had made his move. A hand gripped him like a vice on his shoulder. He turned, ducking underneath the arm that held him, causing the goon's arm to bend awkwardly. He was hastily released. Clint swung his elbow upward into the goon's chin, knocking him backwards, then turned and slammed his foot into the chest of the second Hydra agent who had been coming at his back. They exchanged some blows, Clint blocking every one that came near him. He clamped on to the agent's arm as he swung, twisting him around and shoving him into the other goon who was picking himself up off of the floor. They both went down.

Only one of the Hydra agents returned to his feet, but Clint was on top of him in a second. He wrapped his arms around the man's neck in a choke hold, squeezing tightly. The agent tugged at Clint's arm and swung at his face, gasping for air, but Clint ignored his actions.

The whole ordeal lasted less than thirty seconds, but just as the man in Clint's grasp was about to lose consciousness, Clint heard movement from behind him. Louis, back on his feet. Turning, Clint reached for the strangled agent's gun. As he pulled it from the man's holster, he pushed the man in his arms in front of him, but it was too late.

The barbed electrodes, shot from the Taser in Louis's hand, imbedded themselves in Clint's bare arm, and the electric current flowed into his body. Every muscles in his body locked up, his back arching as he fell in heap onto the floor. Even after the flow of electricity stopped, Clint remained sprawled on the ground, trembling, unable to make his body move.

The Hydra agent Clint had been suffocating just moments ago suddenly grabbed his bicep, avoiding the electrodes, and the back of his shirt, hoisting him up into a kneeling position. Clint could barely lift his head as he looked up at a pissed off Louis, with a nose that had clearly broken, and his meaty fist that was swinging right towards Clint's head.

* * *

As Clint returned to consciousness, he knew he was in trouble. His whole body ached from the currents of electricity that had passed through him and his head throbbed painfully. He didn't open his eyes, but felt the restraints on his wrists, keeping his arms at ninety degree angle in the metal cuffs. He was standing, his back up against metal. There was something framing his face, which was sticky with blood, probably from when he got clocked in the face.

"Ah, you're awake then." A familiar voice reached his ears, which were still clouded. He pried open his eyes, flinching at the sudden bright light that burnt his eyes. Blinking a few times, the person standing in front of him came into focus.

A woman in a bright red dress, dark hair piled on top of her head in an intricate bun, smiled at him. With an internal sigh, Clint gave a grim smile back. "Nice to see you again, Gloria."

Somehow, Dr. Muniz's smile was far more twisted that Clint ever imagined it could be.

Clint continued, "Let me guess, you're going to torture me, make me spill all of my S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets? Are you Hydra too?"

Dr. Muniz ignored his questions and moved closer to Clint. She clicked on a penlight and began shining it into his eyes, switching from one to the other after careful examination. "Well, it doesn't look like Agent Louis caused any permanent damage," she said lightly, turning off the light.

Moving away, she gestured for someone beyond Clint's field of vision. He tried to turn his head, but the metal contraption surrounding it prevented him from moving. A man, dressed the same as the Hydra agents from before, approached Clint from the left and began to work on the head piece. He was maneuvering thin, metal sticks into place on Clint's face, each one resting on his eyelids, preventing him from blinking.

"So torture, no torture, what's the plan here?" Clint asked casually. His face twitched irritably as the Hydra agent moved away, leaving him incapable of closing his eyes.

"Have you ever heard of Dr. Johann Fennhoff?" Dr. Muniz asked. She had moved over to a bank of computers, and started typing. Where she had formerly stood, a panel of the wall was moving back, revealing what appeared to be a television screen.

When Clint didn't reply, only frowned, Dr. Muniz looked up. "No? Well, I'll try to spare you the boring details. Dr. Fennhoff was a genius, a _genius _psychologist. Probably one of the best this field has ever seen. He developed something known as the Faustus method. It's a coercion method, mental reprogramming. Not dissimilar to what you experienced with Loki."

At that, Clint stiffened. Unable to move his head or his arms, Clint felt his breathing increase fractionally. He remembered waking up, learning he had murdered dozens of people, all without control over his body or memories of his actions. He never wanted to experience that again.

Dr. Muniz moved back in front of Clint. "It has become an extremely useful tool for Hydra, allowing us to turn potential threats into allies."

Clint didn't react; he simply glared at the woman.

"I was told by my superiors that the amazing Hawkeye was the best S.H.I.E.L.D. had to offer. I mean, you practically took down the Helicarrier single-handed. And yet, I've been observing you for two years, and I must say I'm a little disappointed. Three agents should have been easy for you to take care of, and yet, all they walked away with was one broken nose and a wrenched shoulder."

Clint remained stoic, regulating his breathing and trying to sharpen his senses. He knew there had to be a way to escape this. He wasn't going to let anyone hold power over him again.

"Two years and never once did you try to free yourself. Never once did you question the system. You just sat around, doing puzzles, taking your meds. It was pathetic, to tell you the truth."

She stepped forward, as close to Clint as she could be. She laid a gentle hand on his cheek, staring into his eyes. "I believe what we are about to do," she whispered, "will return you to the man you once were. Freedom is not the answer for you and you know it. Only when someone else controls what's up here" -she moved the hand on his cheek to his forehead- "do you show the true greatness within you."

A heavy silence settled between them, each staring into the others eyes. Finally, Clint let out a quiet snort of laughter. "I always knew you were bat-shit crazy."

Dr. Muniz gave him a rueful smile, and then returned to the computer bank. She typed in a few keystrokes, and the screen in front of Clint blazed to life. Bright lines of blue, pink, and purple waved across the screen in a hypnotic pattern. Clint tried to look away, but the restraints on his face prevented him. He could only looks at the screen.

Dr. Muniz's voice reached him from somewhere behind him. It sounded distant, like it came from another world. "Agent Barton. Take a deep breath. Calm your mind. You know what is best. What is best is you comply.

"Compliance will be rewarded."


	3. After Compliance

_A/N: Hey everyone! First off, let me thank everyone who has read, followed, and faved this story! I'm glad so many people are enjoying it! Second, an apology. I meant to have this chapter finished two days ago. Instead of working on it this weekend, I spent my time doing an MCU marathon (getting myself pumped for AoU, only 36 more days!) and then this wonderful thing called calculus homework happened. So, yes, I've been busy. Thirdly, I am unsure when the next chapter will be coming up. I'm visiting colleges this weekend, so I'll be away from my computer for a while. I'll work on it when I can.  
_

_This chapter's got some action, so hope ya'll are prepared! Like always, Clint, S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, and all things Marvel are not mine.I hope you enjoy this chapter! Feel free to follow and comment to let me know what you think! -Krieg  
_

**AFTER**

Chapter 2

After Compliance

Clint was unceremoniously shoved back into his room, or more cell, and fell into an uncoordinated heap. His eyes were dry and sore, his muscles ached and twitched, and his head burned. Oh, how his head was on fire! Clenching his eyes shut, Clint pressed his feverish forehead against the cool, metal floor, relishing the mild relief it brought.

Letting out sharp, even breaths, he fought the itch that had settled into the back of his mind. It felt so similar to Loki, like something was crawling around in his head, working its way into his memories, his thoughts, his self-control. But he would _not _let it happen again. He would not lose himself to another.

How long had it been since his first experience with the Faustus method? Clint didn't know. Days? Weeks? Could it possibly have been a month? Perhaps. Clint had spent half of the time since his apparent capture by Hydra in and out of consciousness. He had not yet succumbed to their brain washing, but it was taking its toll.

After the first few sessions with Dr. Muniz and the Faustus, Clint had been able to keep his wits about him. He had started working his body to maintain his current strength and make up for the muscle mass he'd lost in the institute. He began searching for an escape route. His former plan, the air vent, was welded shut by Hydra, no longer even a possibility. Three additional locks had been added to his door and the bars on his window had been reinforced. Unlike before, Clint began to see guard patrols pass outside his window, all armed to the teeth and branded with Hydra patches on their uniforms. He was unable to find a viable way out.

And as the days passed and Dr. Muniz became more and more frustrated with Clint's lack of "compliance" and constant snarky comments, the sessions with Faustus became more and more frequent. Combined with the lack of food provided to him, it wreaked havoc on his health. He became feverish and would spontaneously pass out, waking up without a clue of how much time he had lost. Pressure built up in his head, making it impossible for him to focus. Clint knew he had to escape this torture soon.

As he lay on the floor, trying to regain control over his body, a sudden pressure was applied to his back, keeping him pinned to the ground. Someone's knee. A hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and kept his face pressed into the ground.

"You should just give up," a voice hissed into his ear. It was some Hydra goon, but Clint was too exhausted to try and figure out which one of his captors it was. "Comply already. No one has ever been able to resist. You may think you're something special, Hawk, but you're no different than any other man. You'll fall just as easily as the rest of them. It's just a matter of time."

But Clint_ was_ different. Unlike anyone else in the world, besides a few other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and Selvig, Clint had firsthand experience with having his head toyed with. He knew what mind control felt like. And he would never stop resisting it. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

But as the Hydra agent shoved him into the ground and left the room, locking the four locks on his door behind him, Clint couldn't help worrying. He had to get out of this place. He needed to escape.

Because he was too afraid that if he didn't, he might actually give in.

* * *

"Compliance will be rewarded."

Sweat ran down Clint's face, neck, and back. He wanted to close his eyes, just close his eyes and block out whatever the hell these people were doing to him. He could feel it in his gut, this natural instinct to give in and end the pain that ruled his mind. Instead, through clenched teeth, he forced out, "Go screw yourself."

Dr. Muniz let out a clearly agitated breath from where she sat at the computer bay. She stared intently at Clint, who could just see her out of the corner of his eye. No matter what, the screen with the Faustus playing on it always remained in sight. Suddenly, the screen went blank, and Dr. Muniz moved into his direct line of sight.

An angry fire burned in her eyes. "You would save us all a lot of time if you would just comply," she said tersely. "We aren't going to stop until you do. My superiors would prefer you mentally intact, but if this goes on any longer, I'll take more drastic measures."

He didn't know what sort of drastic measures they could take, but whatever they were, they sounded like they would be damaging. A small, hardly noticeable shudder passed through Clint's body, but he covered it up with as cocky of a grin as he could muster. "I'm mentally intact right now. Why don't we pay them a visit? I think I owe them an arrow or two through the eye."

With a shake of her head, Dr. Muniz motioned for the goons stationed behind Clint to come and release him from his bonds. Once the eye restraints were removed, Clint rapidly blinked, restoring moisture to his eyes, and took a fresh inventory of the room. He was always searching for a way out, anything to aid in an escape. Most days were fruitless. But today, something caught his eye.

The arm restraints were removed, and the Hydra thug hastily maneuvered his arms into a pair of cuffs in front of his body. The agent grabbed his forearm and roughly pulled him forward to escort him out. Clint stumbled with the sudden jolt of movement.

"Hey Gloria. Mind telling your henchmen to be careful. Precious cargo here, if the uppity-ups are so keen on keeping me 'intact'."

With a frown, Dr. Muniz replied, "Tomorrow, we're going to increase your exposure. We'll see just how impudent you are after that."

"Looking forward to it, Gloria. Looking forward to it."

The Hydra agent pushed him towards the door, and Clint tripped forward. After four or five steps, his legs seemed to give out beneath him and he dramatically crashed into the desk pushed up against the wall nearby. Normally, the desk was cleared off, but today Clint was accompanied to the ground by a flurry of charts and files.

"Get up," the Hydra agent barked, dragging him back up onto his feet. The other goon, Louis, rushed over from where he had been standing by the door and grabbed his other arm. Together, they manhandled him out of the lab.

No one noticed the missing pen that Clint had slipped into his hands during his tumble.

Clint was led through the maze of hallways in the institute. He passed countless doors and couldn't help wondering if there were actually any other prisoners in the place. He hadn't seen any of the other patients since Hydra appeared, so he could only assume the guards and staff were all here for him. Wow, that sounded conceited, Clint thought to himself.

Clint took deep, mind calming breaths as they walked. His head was pounding, his sight blurred. But he fought it. Something in the back of his mind was telling him to focus. Something was about to happen.

As they passed what had at one point been the nurses' station, he heard it. Somewhere outside, Clint could hear a quiet _tat-tat-tat. _Machine gun fire.

"Hey Lou, you hear that?" he asked.

"Keep quiet," Louis snapped back.

"No seriously. I know my hearing is probably, like, ten times better than yours, but you have to be hearing this too."

The noise started to get slightly louder, and then an overhead alarm started blaring. Clint felt the grip on his forearms tighten. He in turn tightened his grip on his hidden writing utensil.

Louis glanced over at the second Hydra agent, slowing their progress through the hall. "Maxwell, try and radio Wallace up on the tower, see if he kno-"

Clint didn't know quite when he decided to do it. He'd originally nabbed the pen to dismantle and then attempt to manufacture into a sort of lock pick. But in that instant, as Louis ordered around goon number two, he changed his plan.

Instead, he swung his cuffed hands up and plunged the tip of the pen straight into Louis's eye.

The beastly man let out a guttural roar, his hand groping at the pen sticking straight out from his head. With him distracted, Clint lunged forward, gripped the gun from Louis's thigh holster, and whirled around. He sent two bullets straight into the second agent's head then turned and hooked his leg underneath Louis's, knocking his feet out from under him.

Louis flew onto the ground, withering on his back, attempting to tug the pen out, whimpering. Clint snorted.

"Told you I heard something." Clint buried three rounds in the man's chest; skillfully hitting every spot the man's vest didn't protect him.

Now alone, Clint snagged the keys to his cuffs from the guard, freed his hands, and listened intently. He couldn't hear the machine gun over the obnoxiously loud alarm echoing through the halls.

With nothing to tell him whether friend or foe was firing outside, Clint stripped both Hydra agents of all of their weapons and spare ammo clips. He also tore off the smaller of the two agent's cargo pants and tactical vest and put them on over his own dirty scrubs. He tugged the man's boots off as well and laced them onto his own feet. They were a little small, but if he was getting out of here, boots that pinched his toes beat out bare feet easily.

Oddly enough, his hallway had remained deserted, despite the clear warning alarms. Taking it as the first good omen he'd received in years, Clint wasted some time to slip behind the nursing station and examine the computer he knew was located there. If he was lucky, some of the information on his treatment and the Faustus method might be on the hard drive.

With little finesse, Clint picked up the computer tower and threw it onto the ground. The machine shattered and Clint dug through the remains as he glanced around the hall. When he found the hard drive, intact, he tucked it into the waistband of his pants.

Sweat dripped down his forehead and he wiped it away; his forehead was hot and clammy. He then chambered a round into one of the handguns he'd claimed and started his search for an escape.

As he jogged through the halls, it didn't take him long to meet opposition. Naturally, his good luck couldn't last very long.

He was just entering an intersection that branched off to his left and right when a Hydra agent came sprinting out from one of the adjacent hallways. The two men plowed into each other, both sprawling in opposite directions, the gun in Clint's hand sliding down the hall. Clint landed on his back, the wind knocked straight out of him.

The Hydra man was already standing as Clint rolled to his feet, his gun pointed at Clint's chest as he clearly recognized him. With lightning reflexes, Clint swatted the gun from the man's hands and swung a fist towards his head. The goon ducked under his arm and rushed forward, grabbing Clint around the waist and slamming him into the wall. With a pained grunt, Clint drove his knee up, connecting with the man's rib cage.

The man released him and Clint wedged a foot between them, shoving the man away with his leg. The Hydra agent barely hesitated before flying back towards Clint. This time, Clint ducked a punch and delivered two of his own to the man's stomach. As he doubled over, Clint grabbed either side of the man's head and twisted. With a sickening snap, the man collapsed, boneless, to the ground.

Clint let out a heavy breath, cracked his knuckles, and smiled. His blood was rushing through his veins, his body high on adrenaline. Even with the headache and fever, he hadn't felt this empowered since New York. Even after two years of R and R and a month of brainwashing, he was still good.

Clint moved down the hall and bent down to pick up his gun. He tried to get his bearings. He knew he was on the second floor; the window in his room had been high up. He was just thinking about how to go about finding a staircase when a door down the hall opened and two more Hydra men emerged.

Clint swore to himself. It took the goons only a second to realize the man in the Hydra vest was not actually Hydra before their guns were whipped out. Clint pulled his own gun and fired a couple times down the hall. One of the agents went down, but the other open fired as Clint spun around and started sprinting down the hallway. One bullet clipped his bicep and another his thigh, but he ignored them.

There was a large, glass window at the end of the hall, unbarred, unlike Clint's had been. Not giving himself time to second guess his decision, Clint fired two rounds into the glass, the bullets causing a spider web of cracks to form, before he leaped through it.

The glass shattered around him as he fell to the main ground. Just like he'd been trained, as he hit the ground Clint let his knees buckle, tucked himself into a ball, and rolled over his shoulder. He finished the roll back up on his feet and started sprinting from the wall.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a watch tower near the gate for the fence that surrounded the building's perimeter. He angled himself in that direction as bullets started to rain from the broken window, running in a zigzag pattern.

As he approached the gate, he realized there was a scattering of Hydra bodies near the watchtower. The two he observed both had bullet wounds, one with two rounds to the head and the other with one in the leg and another penetrating his vest. Clint remembered the sound of machine guns that had allowed him to escape his captors. Maybe there was someone looking out for him after all.

He approached the gate, hit the button near the edge to automatically open it, and hastily moved towards the vehicles parked nearby. He had just searched a truck, finding it void of any keys, when the sharp sound of gunfire reached his ears again and bullets pinged off of the truck near him. Clint ducked down and slid to the opposite side, using the truck as cover.

Glancing over, his keen eyes quickly picked out the two Hydra men on the facility's roof responsible for the bullets. With two perfectly aimed head shots, both agents fell from view.

The courtyard was silent again. As he removed the empty clip from his gun and loaded a fresh one, Clint heard the sound of machine guns coming from within the building and a faint echo of the alarm. He felt bad that he would never find out who the crazy yahoos that had stormed the Hydra base and aided him in his escape were.

He returned to his search for a vehicle. He checked through three different cars, none of which had a key, and started contemplating whether or not to try and hotwire one of them. Whoever was inside the institute seemed to be keeping Hydra busy, so he figured he'd have time. Instead, he stumbled upon a motorcycle, key in the ignition, just begging to be stolen.

It had been two years since Clint had ridden a bike, but it wasn't a skill he'd easily forget. He threw his leg over, started the engine, and revved the bike into action. The gates now stood open and Clint zoomed through, not bothering to look back at the building that had led to so much torment.

The road was narrow and paved, curving through the forested mountains. The wind whipped through Clint's hair, a sensation he had been unsure he would ever get to experience again, as he flew down the road.

He was so intent on enjoying his freedom and monitoring the road behind him for potential pursuers that he was unprepared for the large black SUV that came roaring up from the opposite direction. The narrow road did not provide enough room for both vehicles, so Clint was forced to swerve onto the shoulder of the road. He glanced at the driver as he tried to prevent the bike from sliding out from beneath him, but the windows were tinted and he couldn't make out who was behind the wheel.

Returning to the road, Clint slowed his bike and glanced back at the SUV. The car had stopped, the red brake lights illuminated. Clint thought it looked like a S.H.I.E.L.D. standard vehicle. Was that who had attacked the compound?

But he couldn't risk sticking around to find out. He'd been at a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility when he had been put into custody. For all he knew, these were just more Hydra thugs under the guise of S.H.I.E.L.D. aid.

No, until he had time to clear his head and figure out what the hell had happened since he'd been put into confinement, he was on his own.

The doors of the SUV had started to open, but Clint revved the engine of the bike and sped back along the road. Someone shouted something from behind him, but he didn't listen. He kept going.

He was free. Hydra had resurfaced. Now it was time to find out just what the hell had happened.


	4. After the Escape

_A/N: Hello my lovelies! I must apologize. It has taken me a bit to finish this chapter up. I was busy all weekend and then my teachers decided the week before break had to be the busiest and most stressful of the school year. I had little time to work on this, and then I learned I have a rare skin illness brought on by none other than stress! So break is much needed. I spent my plane ride out here working on this and am currently posting it from Vegas! Wooh!_

_I greatly appreciate all of your follows, favs, and reviews. Keep predicting, it makes me happy! Who was in the SUV? We'll find out in the next few chapters! The plan was to have this finished before AoU comes out, but since that's 27 days away, I don't know if that will happen. We shall see._

_As always, I don't own S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, Clint, or anyone else Marvely. Please favorite,_ _follow_**,**_ and review to let me know what you think! -Krieg_

**AFTER**

Chapter 3

After the Escape

Clint didn't stop driving until he was out of Maine. He sped down every discreet back road he could find, probably tripling the amount of time it took to reach New Hampshire, but making sure he wasn't being tailed. He drove for hours straight, half dazed, in a sort of highway hypnosis.

The bike was coasting on fumes when he pulled up at the biker bar, not far from Concord. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the sky was a bloody red and twilight blue. The autumn wind chilled the night air and Clint would have liked nothing more than to pop inside the bar for a few beers and a hustled game of darts, but he knew he had to keep moving. He had to reach a safe house, contact Fury or Natasha or Sitwell, and find out what the hell had happened.

Clint left his bike among the rows of decked out Harley's, and perused the cars and pickups parked on the opposite end of the parking lot. He needed something old. If he had to, he could hotwire anything, but the older the car the easier it was.

An ancient Ford pickup, a dull rusted red, started calling to him and after a quick inspection, Clint realized the truck had been left unlocked. Clearly, the god of automobile theft was smiling down upon him today.

Picking up a long, discarded piece of metal lying on the ground nearby, Clint glanced around for potential witnesses and then pried the panel under the steering counsel off. Lying down on the floor of the car, Clint tore a few wires free. With any adrenaline he'd once had long gone, his hands trembled as he twisted together the battery wires, attached the ignition wire, and tapped the starter wire against the rest. The engine turned and stuttered a few times before catching and roaring to life. Clint hopped up into the driver's seat and revved the engine a few times to prevent the truck from stalling. With the truck now running, Clint gripped the steering wheel tightly and turned it sharply to the right, throwing all of his weight into it, until he heard the steering lock break.

Since no one had come running out of the bar to stop him, Clint figured his theft had gone undetected, the loud music from the bar drowning out the old engine and the darkness covering him from view. Flicking on the headlights, Clint pulled out of the parking lot and tore down the road.

Clint spent most of the night driving, trying not to speed or doze off and catch the attention of any late night police patrols. His whole body was punishing him. With eyelids drooping, his vision blurred as exhaustion hit him hard and heavy. His back ached where he'd been slammed up against the wall and the bullet grazes on his arm and thigh throbbed. He figured he'd have to treat them soon.

Around one in the morning, Clint came to a stop in a teeny suburban town outside of Hartford, Connecticut. He parked the Ford along the sidewalk of what he assumed was the town's Main Street. Fighting the tug of sleep, he forced himself to dig through the center counsel and the glove compartment, finding a flashlight, first aid kit, and about three dollars in loose change.

Using the flashlight to search through the first aid kit, Clint found some neosporin, which he smeared on the wounds in his bicep and leg, along with some bandages. Making sure the wounds were thoroughly covered, Clint tossed the gear he'd found and the computer hard drive still tucked in his pants onto the passenger seat and clambered onto the bench like back seat of the truck. Sprawling out, Clint had only time to yawn and pray no one would be peering into the windows in the morning before he let his battered body sucumb to sleep.

* * *

The first thing Clint did when he woke up was seek out a phone. He stumbled upon an old payphone two blocks down. With the loose change he'd found last night tucked in his pocket, he locked himself in the graffiti filled phone booth.

After depositing fifty cents worth of change, he rapidly dialed his direct S.H.I.E.L.D. contact number. The phone rang exactly two and a half times before an automated recording announced that he'd contacted the Clear View Commercial Banking Consultants. Ignoring the recording's requests to press four for help on loans, Clint punched in his S.H.I.E.L.D. ID, five numbers and four letters.

A new recorded voice demanded a vocal conformation. "Barton, Clinton F," Clint said in a weary voice. The voice confirmed his identity and transferred him to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s private line. This was one of the easier ways for agents to receive new orders, directions to safe houses, and instructions on rendezvous points.

Clint waited, but in the end, the automated voice reported that he had no orders, no directions to follow. It made sense, he was supposed to be locked away in crazy town. But surely S.H.I.E.L.D. would have noticed their own medical ward being overrun with Nazis.

With a frustrated sigh, Clint placed the phone back onto the cradle. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths and trying to ignore the headache that was beating on his temple. After a moment, he opened his eyes and picked the phone back up. He deposited two more quarters and dialed a number he knew by heart. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

"Come on Tash," he breathed, resting his forehead against the wall of the booth. The call was directed to an automated messaging system.

"Damn it all!" Clint slammed the phone back into place and stormed out of the phone booth.

He needed to figure out his next play. First, food and supplies. He'd left the tactical vest in the truck, so all he was wearing was the dirty T-shirt from the institute and the pants and too small boots he'd taken off of the Hydra guard. He needed clean clothes. And food. The sparse diet of a Hydra prisoner had left him famished. But to get any of that, he needed money.

Clint wandered down Main Street, keeping an eye open for an ATM. The small town was waking up, shops opening and cars passing down the street. He took note of a general store and an Internet café as he walked.

Three or four blocks from his truck, Clint found a small bank that had just opened. He walked in and made a casual beeline towards the machine on the far wall. The teller glanced at him as he entered, then returned to whatever she was working on.

At the ATM, Clint hastily punched in the specific S.H.I.E.L.D. PIN number. This number would give him access at any automated teller, even without a debit or credit card. But, following the trend of the day, the screen read an error message.

"Come on..." Clint muttered. He felt someone waiting behind him for their turn as he typed in the PIN again. The same error message flashed at him again, with an additional "please see teller".

When Clint slammed his hand against the wall in frustration, the teller shot to her feet from behind the desk. "Sir, can I help you with something?"

Clint whirled around, shouldering the man behind him out of his way as he headed towards the exit. "No," he growled, casually tucking the wallet he'd pinched into the pocket of his pants.

The man hadn't had much cash, probably the reason for his stop at the ATM, but Clint was able to nab two more wallets from the passersby that were wandering down the streets in the early morning. By then he had enough money to cover the supplies he needed and a nice hot breakfast.

Clint stopped at the general store first. He filled a basket with a backpack, a clean t-shirt and jeans, some generic sneakers, protein bars, water bottles, a prepaid cellphone, and a small pocket tool kit.

He deposited everything on the counter. The clerk, a young college student, started ringing up his purchases and glanced up at him. "Hey dude, you feeling okay? You look a little rough," he said casually, tapping some keys on the register.

"Was at my buddy's bachelor party last night," Clint mumbled as a reply, glancing around the empty store.

The clerk nodded, as if that explained Clint's bloodshot eyes and sickly pallor. "Hangover's a bitch," he said, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from a rack on the counter and tossing them on top of the rest of Clint's pile. "You might want those."

"Thanks," Clint grunted.

As Clint paid and the clerk printed out his receipt, the television bolted to the wall over the counter changed from commercials to the morning news. Clint paid it little mind until he saw the caption. "S.H.I.E.L.D. Scandal Under Further Investigation."

Everything inside of Clont froze. He stared at the television screen, watching footage of three Helicarriers, _three _Helicarriers, crash into the Triskelion and plunge into the Potomac River below. The anchor began speaking, "As of yesterday, frightening ties were discovered between the corrupt government agency S.H.I.E.L.D. and the attack on Manhattan two years ago. Close examination by Homeland Security of the information released earlier this month has discovered..."

Clint didn't even realize the clerk was holding out his receipt, looking at him expectantly. He followed Clint's gaze to the television screen.

Taking their earlier banter as a small sign of camaraderie, the clerk exclaimed, "Yeah, that shit's crazy, ain't it. I follow S.H.I.E.L. on Twitter. New stuff every hour. You know, I hear that one of their own agents is responsible for all of the alien crap in New York. Helped out the alien dude they called Lo... You want a bag for this stuff or..."

During the clerks speech Clint had started shoving all of his purchases into the backpack as hastily as he could. He slung it over his shoulders and bolted out of the store without giving the clerk so much as a "no thanks".

Jogging down the sidewalk as quick as he could without drawing the attention of the civilians who strolled the sidewalks with more frequency, Clint flew into the Internet café he'd taken note of earlier and sat down at one of the computers in the back. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he pulled up every news website he could think of. It was plastered over every headline. S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra.

He realized then that what had happened at the mental hospital hadn't been a single occurrence. It had happened _everywhere. _

After a quick change into the fresh clothes he'd bought, Clint spent the rest of the morning pouring over the hundreds of S.H.I.E.L.D. files that had been leaked across the Internet. He was there so long the owner of the café forced him to buy a coffee and some waffles so he didn't have to ask him to leave. The food remained untouched, despite his hunger, as he discovered blueprints of Stage Two weaponry, production plans for Project Insight, detailed studies on the Tesseract. All information that had been kept under the tightest lock and key. Hell, Clint himself hadn't even known about Stage Two or Insight until he read it then and there.

Traffic cam footage of Directory Fury being chased through DC, his SUV being destroyed by a merc with a metal arm. The news that Fury had been killed hit Clint hard. At one point he'd been within Fury's inner circle. He'd known the man well; or as well as anyone knew Nicholas Fury.

He read everything S.H.I.E.L.D. had ever had on The Winter Soldier, about the manhunt for Captain America, how Rodgers, Widow, and a pararescueman named Sam Wilson had single handedly destroyed three Helicarriers and the Triskelion. So much had happened while he'd been gone.

He found Natasha next. It started with the discovery of a video of her in a Senate subcommittee meeting, defending S.H.I.E.L.D., which led him to her file. Everything from Drakoff to São Paulo to Budapest. Every alias she'd ever used, every man she'd ever killed.

Then it finally hit him. His file was out there. With shaking hands, he typed his own name into the search bar. Somehow he hadn't put two and two together. The cashier had mentioned a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent responsible for New York. Who else could it have been but him?

Clint didn't know how he had missed it before, but he found plenty of news articles with his name in them. CNN News even had his picture plastered up next to a video of his attack on the Helicarrier. His entire military service record, every reprimand he'd ever gotten, all of his assassinations, his relocation to a mental institute, every last bit of it at the fingertips of the average populace.

It was too much. Clint's head was on fire again, just like after a session with the Faustus. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, taking deep, calming breaths through his nose. Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the paused video of him storming the Helicarrier. His eyes that God awful blue. A chill passed through his body and he heard Loki laugh in the back of his mind, telling him to destroy everyone and everything he'd ever cared for.

The jingle of the bells on the door as it opened brought his mind back from its wandering. Clint glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the two buff men who entered. They weren't just some civilians popping in for their daily cup of joe. The way they held themselves, glancing at one another before splitting up, each claiming a table on opposite sides of the room, it all screamed hired muscle to Clint's trained eyes. The phone call to S.H.I.E.L.D. had led them straight to the town. Hydra had found him.

Clint quickly cleared his search history then logged off the computer. Pushing his chair back, he slung his backpack over his shoulders and walked towards the door. He didn't glance at either man as he passed, but he could sense them both standing and following as he pulled the door open and exited the building.

Keeping his pace calm and neutral, Clint crossed the street, angling towards the truck he'd stolen. He opened the driver's door, scooped up the first aid kit and flashlight he'd found last night along with the computer hard drive, and stuffed them into a side pocket of the backpack. As he closed the door he caught a glimpse of the Hydra men's reflection in the car window as they entered the street in pursuit.

Clint sighed, hopping up onto the sidewalk, perching his sunglasses on his nose, and plucking the burner phone from his back pocket. He dialed Natasha, being sent to the message machine again.

"Hey Tasha, could you pick up and quit sending me to voicemail. I know you're alive, I just watched the video of you pissing off the nation's favorite senators. I'm fine, by the way. Hydra tried to brainwash me again, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle. I'm headed to New York. The apartment. I've got some Hydra tails I'm gonna try and shake, but if you feel like sending some back up I wouldn't mind the help. You must know someone still loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D., you spoke so eloquently about them on TV. Like I said, the apartment. I'll see you soon."

The second he ended the call, Clint let the phone drop and whirled around. He'd felt the presence of the goons practically at his shoulders. One let out a startled shout as Clint grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tugged him into the narrow alley between a nail salon and a pharmacy. He shoved the man away, sending him crashing into a dumpster.

The other man had followed them, drawing a gun. Clint spun and clamped onto one of the man's wrists, using his other hand to pry the gun away. As Clint tugged the gun away it went off and a bullet whizzed past Clint's ear. Once the weapon was in his grip, Clint buried two rounds into the man's forehead. He turned and sent another bullet into the head of the man slumped next to the dumpster. Clint couldn't help thinking, _Too easy._

Despite the size of the town, Clint knew someone had heard the gunfire. He checked the gun's clip quickly, half full, then tucked it into the back of his waistband. He slipped out of the alley and walked calmly down the sidewalk as if nothing had happened. He ignored the running footsteps and startled shout from behind him.

On the outskirts of the tiny town Clint stole a beige sedan parked in front of a run down one story house. The drive to New York lasted a little more than an hour but the New York traffic made his drive much longer. About halfway there he realized he was still being followed. A green minivan was following him at a discreet distance, so discreet he barely even noticed. Unlike the agents back at the town, he couldn't help admiring the skill. But then again, they might have once been S.H.I.E.L.D., and S.H.I.E.L.D. had always been the best.

By the time Clint reached Harlem the minivan had been replaced by a blue sedan. They parked four or five spaces behind Clint as he pulled up in front of his apartment.

Clint stared at the building for a while, keeping an eye on the Hydra car, contemplating what to do. He'd had the apartment for a long time. It had even survived the Hulk's Harlem rampage relatively unscathed. It was on the top floor and the Hydra agents could surround him inside. But even if Natasha, or some other form of aid, wasn't waiting for him, there was still an arsenal tucked away in the building. And Clint missed his bow.

Acting before he could change his mind, Clint exited the car and entered the building lobby. Taking the stairs up to his floor two at a time, Clint began to prepare himself for battle. He'd have to enter the apartment, grab a bow, and hunker down. He could hear the Hydra agents footsteps echoing below him in the stairwell.

The door's handle was fingerprint sensitive, so the door unlocked instantly when he wrapped his hand around it. The door swung open and Clint rushed into the apartment. As he rounded the corner into the main living space, he came face to face with the last person he ever expected to see. Tasha, Sitwell, Rodgers, sure, they would come and help him. But of all the potential help, Clint didn't expect this man.

"Hey Ward, fancy meeting you here."


	5. After Agent Ward

_A/N: Hello everyone! Hope this new chapter finds everyone well. Life for me is better. Still incredibly stressful, but better. I've finally finished up this chapter and I'm super excited to see what y'all think about it. It's very, very late, but I think it turned out pretty good. It hasn't helped that we've been getting TONS of AoU interviews, trailers, and clips that have dictated my free time. I'm so excited for this movie, I can hardly wait! As things stand, I should finish this fic right around the time of the USA release date for AoU. (You lucky Brits and your early release date! So jealous!) There are two more chapters after this, so be looking for those within the next few weeks. I promise to be diligent and work on this and not get distracted by the 13 lovely Daredevil episodes that are waiting for me on my Netflix queue. (Anyone watching that? I hear it's fabulous!)  
_

_As always, the Avengers, Agents of SH.I.E.L.D., and all characters associated with them belong to Stan Lee, Joss Whedon, and all of those lovely people over at Marvel. Please follow, fav, and leave a comment or two to let me know what you think! Thanks! -Krieg_

* * *

**AFTER  
**

Chapter 4

After Agent Ward

Clint Barton and Grant Ward had always had an interesting relationship.

They shared a mutual respect for one another. Both were highly proficient at their jobs and admired one another's abilities. They'd even worked together a few times, albeit briefly, and made a formidable team.

But in all truth, the two men hated each other with a burning passion.

Although Clint had completed his general training years before Ward, there had always been a rivalry between the two of them. Clint had set every record for long and short distance shooting accuracy and Ward had always been snapping at his heels, trying to top his scores. He never did, of course. Clint didn't get the title of "World's Greatest Marksman" for nothing. But there was always the resentment that Clint would always be a little bit better. However, they both got their asses handed to them by Natasha in hand to hand, so they considered themselves on the same level in that respect.

But being better got you places. Clint got the more challenging missions and the praise. He got into the director's inner circle. He got a spot on the Avengers in New York, despite being half the reason they were needed in the first place.

Ward was just another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. And he wasn't smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Clint knew Ward disliked him. Hell, he'd read Ward's reports. Apparently Clint was too willing to break protocol for Ward's liking because there was a stack of complaints with Clint's name on them filed by Ward.

So naturally, Clint would make Ward's life a living nightmare whenever they were on the same base. Clint would break protocol, run his mouth, and get on every last nerve the man possessed. He even resorted to the simple pranking if he ran out of ideas. The footage from the time Clint plastic wrapped Ward's toilet seat was sealed somewhere in the Level 6 data base. Clint would find that someday. But it had taken their relationship to a new level of dislike.

Therefore, as Clint hovered in the entrance of his apartment, he was beyond surprised to see Grant Ward standing before him.

However, Clint happened to know that the man was as loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. as they came. He would sacrifice life and limb for the organization, so if anyone was working with Natasha, Clint wouldn't be surprised if it was him.

Ward was casually leaning against the wall of windows that overlooked the city, arms crossed. He looked pissed, but Clint always thought he looked angry, so that wasn't a big surprise.

"Hey Ward, fancy meeting you here."

Ward smirked at Clint's comment. "Well Barton, you know I just love saving your ass."

"If I recall correctly," Clint said as he slid his backpack off his shoulder and onto the couch nearby, "I think I was the one who prevented you from becoming Swiss cheese à la bullet holes last time. Romanov send you?"

Ward nodded, pushing off from the window and taking a step forward. "Yeah, she said you had a tail, might need help shaking it."

Clint grunted an affirmative. "Yeah, they've been on me since New Haven. Switched off when I hit New York so they're communicating. I have no idea how many are on their way, but they're right behind me." He pulled the gun out from his waistband and placed it on the kitchen counter. "How much firepower you got?"

Tossing a glance at Ward, who was pulling out his own weapon, Clint moved into the kitchen, pulling open the cabinet he kept a spare quiver in.

Two things alerted Clint that he was in serious trouble. One: the quiver he always kept stocked in case of a surprise attack during breakfast was missing. Two: Clint heard the all too familiar sound of a gun safety being released.

With a weary sigh, Clint swung the cabinet door closed. "They got to you too, huh?"

And then he moved. He spun to the side as a bullet splintered the cabinet right where his head had been a second ago. He caught a glimpse of Ward, stoic faced, with his gun trained on Clint, as he swept his own weapon from the island and ducked down. Another gunshot cracked through the room as he dropped himself behind the island and his right side exploded with pain.

Clint gasped in pain, but ignored the fresh bullet wound as he poked around the side of the island and fired off three rounds from his own firearm. He would later blame trauma for the three consecutive misses, but the bullets did send Ward ducking for cover of his own, sliding into the hallway leading to the bedroom.

"Wow," Clint heard Grant exclaim, as he took the reprieve to sit and lean against the island and check his wound. "Never thought I'd see the day the Hawk didn't hit his target."

Probing his back for an exit wound, which he didn't find, Clint glanced around the kitchen. His eyes landed on a towel draped through the handle of a drawer. He whipped it down and pressed it to the front of his side, attempting to staunch the heavy flow of blood that was quickly staining his hands, clothes, and kitchen tile. Regrettably, Clint was a bit of an expert when it came to ballistic trauma and he could tell this wound was a doozy. There were no major arteries in the bullet's location, but it could have still clipped something major. He was still breathing comfortably, so his lung was intact, but he was wary about running around with the bullet lodged in his torso. It could still do some damage.

"I never thought I'd see the day when the golden boy turned against S.H.I.E.L.D.," Clint tossed back, opening a drawer in which he kept more dish towels. He folded a couple to make a thick pad, which he pressed to the bleeding wound, and tied a couple more around his waist to secure them in place.

Clint heard Ward snort. "I hate that nickname, bird brain. But you know by now, S.H.I.E.L.D. is no more."

"We both know a bunch of World War Two nut jobs isn't enough to get rid of S.H.I.E.L.D.." Clint paused. "You need to snap out of this Ward," Clint ground out, picking up his gun with bloody hands. "You need to fight this. The Faustus. You're a good agent; you don't want to do this. Don't let them make you do this."

Clint needed a bow, he needed a quiver. His gun had only a couple more rounds left and he didn't want to find himself weaponless against an incredibly well trained agent like Ward. Peering over the top of the counter and glancing around the apartment, he could tell it had been searched. It was normally messy, but this was a new kind of disaster zone; the furniture askew, papers and books scattered across the floor, drawers emptied of all contents and left dangling from the bookshelves and dressers. Surely, Ward was smart enough to find all of Clint's scattered weapons. But as he looked around, a glint of metal helped him notice that Ward had missed something. And Clint was going to make him pay for that mistake.

Ward laughed, stepping out from his hiding place, gun raised. "You think I'm doing this against my will?" He chuckled darkly. "Barton, I've been a part of Hydra as long as I've been S.H.I.E.L.D.. Garrett recruited me for Hydra long before he tossed me into S.H.I.E.L.D.."

Damn. Clint hadn't been expecting that. Never in his wildest dreams would goody two shoes Grant Ward be a S.H.I.E.L.D. defector. The man was a walking protocol handbook, with the skills to back it up. And he was Hydra? There was no way. That was like saying Tony Stark wasn't a narcissist. It just wasn't possible.

Clint peered around the side of the island once again, his eyes carefully tracking Ward's slow movement towards the kitchen. "John's Hydra?" he asked. John Garrett had been one hell of an agent and helped train countless agents. Clint couldn't help wondering how many of those men and women had been tainted by Hydra.

"Hell, you're Hydra?" Clint added. "You? Golden child of S.H.I.E.L.D.? The guy who sent in four separate reprimands when I broke protocol by stopping for a hot dog during an op. That guy, he's Hydra? I don't believe it Ward."

Ward smirked. "I know stalling when I see it Barton. You sure as hell like to run that mouth of yours. You have to see that Hydra is the answer here. Why remain loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.? What have they done for you Barton. They're lies were the reason you got sucked into that mess with Loki. And what did they do when you helped clean up their mess? Send you off to the nut house. You could have a prominent role in Hydra's operations Hawk."

"You're really not a brainwashed monkey right now?" Clint baited, gripping his gun tightly and bracing his battered body for action. "You sound crazy, but I guess you always did. Just a little bit."

With that, Clint spun out from behind the island, gun trained on Ward. But at the same instant, the front door was blasted inward and a group of Hydra agents pushed their way into the room.

"_Shit!" _Clint hissed, firing a round at Ward, who had ducked back behind cover, before turning and using the rest of his clip to drop the additional agents.

Letting the gun drop, Clint dodged a barrage of bullets from Ward, which missed him by centimeters and splintered the wall behind him, sending wooden shrapnel flying. Clint could feel some lodge itself into his cheek and the back of his neck. His side pulsed with pain as he ran across the room, swiping the small metal pieces off of the coffee table, and dove behind the momentary protection of the couch.

Clint took a quick breather, his breaths labored as blood ran down his side.

Ward spoke again. "Don't make this harder than it has to be Barton."

Clint smiled, ever so slightly, to himself. "Come on Ward, this is me we're talking about. I always do things the hard way."

Looking down at his hands, he admired the small, harmless looking arrowheads that had been ignored on his coffee table. He plucked up one of the arrow tips Ward had missed, rolling it around in his fingers before hitting the tiny, concealed switch on the base. He tossed it away from himself, towards Ward and the bank of windows that let in the light of the dying sun.

"But Ward, you might want to cover your ears."

Without giving the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent a chance to react, the windows shattered and Ward dropped as the sonic arrow tip went off and released an intense pulse of sound. Clint already had his hands braced over his ears, but the high frequency was still able to penetrate his ear drums. He sat up, his ears ringing.

The arrow tip was enough to knock Ward out, but for how long Clint did not know. Hastily, he stripped the dead and passed out Hydra agents of their weaponry, then went in search of his own. He found the pile of quivers and bows in the bedroom. Ward clearly hadn't thought he'd make it that far into his apartment.

Clint swung two full quivers over his shoulder and picked up one of his recurve bows. Oh, it felt good to have it back in his hand. It'd been years since he'd gotten to loose an arrow and his fingers were itching to pull back the string.

And he was going to get to do it sooner than he thought.

Clint's ears echoed with tinnitus, but through the high ringing whine, he could just make out the sound of boots crushing broken glass. He drew an arrow from the quiver, a shrapnel arrow, and set it on the bow. With the string pulled back, Clint rushed through the doorway, firing the arrow straight into the chest of yet another Hydra agent. Once the arrow hit its mark, a barrage of small metal shards flung out, striking down two additional Hydra men.

Two additional Hydra agents managed to escape the arrow and open fired on Clint. He felt another bullet tear through his bicep as he turned around and ran.

And jumped straight out of the glassless window.

Clint hated falling. He had nightmares about it after all. And yet, he found himself hurtling from immense heights far more often than was probably expected of a mentally sound agent. But then again, according to countless psychologists, Clint wasn't nearly as mentally sound as he thought. So perhaps it was completely normal.

He spun midair as he fell, much like back in New York, drawing another arrow back on his bow. When he released, the grappling arrow flew upward and latched itself right beneath the very window he had just flung himself out of.

Unlike in New York, however, there was no window for him to conveniently crash through. So instead, as the rope pulled taut and Clint's swing came to an end, he ended up body slamming into a brick wall.

Clint groaned, fresh pain pulsating from his bullet wounds and his shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the wall. He was now only two stories above the ground, so he released the rope attached to the grappling arrow and dropped down to the empty street below.

He rolled as his feet made contact and came back up in a crouch. Clint was feeling woozy and a haze was creeping up in the side of his vision. He breathed deeply, pushing air into his burning lungs.

Gunshots echoed from above as a fresh round of bullets hailed down on Clint, the Hydra agents leaning out of the window stories above and firing down at the street. Clint didn't care to stick around and took off down a side alley with an awkward limp, the new bullet hole making it impossible to put pressure on one of his legs.

With no idea if any Hydra goons were street level or how quickly the two in his apartment would descend, Clint moved rapidly. He couldn't run, but he could damn well power walk. He wove his way through the maze of turns and became aware of a presence hot on his trail. He could see the faint outline of a person lurking in the shadows out of the corner of his eye. As he rounded one corner, he whipped another arrow out, a plain tip, and drew it back, aiming where he knew his follower would appear when they turned the corner.

Expecting a generic Hydra man, Clint was thoroughly surprised to find himself staring at Agent Melinda May. The Cavalry.

Unlike Agent Ward, Clint knew very little about Agent May. Naturally, everyone knew about her. She was the Cavalry after all. The true stories about her were unbelievable, not to mention the rumors that spread like a wildfire through each and every S.H.I.E.L.D. base. The last Clint had heard, May had retired from active duty and was spending her time locked in some sublevel basement in New York filing field reports. Seeing her in the field once again, that was suspicious.

"Barton," she said as Clint's eyes flicked towards the gun held loosely in her hand, aimed towards the ground. "I'm here to help you."

Clint shifted his weight of his aching leg, eyes returning to stare at her calm, expressionless face. He breathed a quiet laugh. "Funny, good old Ward said the exact same thing; right before he put a bullet through my kidney."

May glanced down at his bleeding side, then at his bow, arrow at the ready, then back at his face.

"Coulson sent me."

This time Clint openly laughed. "Don't patronize me. I would expect something a little more... professional from Hydra. We both know Phil died years ago."

"He's alive."

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Clint muttered, pulling the bow string back an extra inch. "Just like you're here to give me a hand. How'd you find me, might I ask? Out of professional curiosity. If I'm going to die, I'd at least like to know where I slipped up."

"I'm not sure how Agent Ward found you," May replied, "but as for me, I got a call from Agent Romanov. She claimed you were in need of assistance. But it looks like you're doing just fine on your own." A small ghost of a smile floated across her face before returning to stone.

Not appreciating her sarcasm, Clint stared at her, scrutinizing her face. The woman was so expressionless that Clint had no clue whether she was telling the truth or not. He settled for another question.

"I thought you were off active duty. Became a paper pusher. What brings you back into the field?"

"Coulson asked me to."

"Again with the Coulson thing!" Clint growled. "He's dead! I've seen the footage. Hell, I was there! In fact it's my fault he's dead, so why don't you just skip the bullshit lies and let me decide where I'm gonna put this arrow!"

Clint's voice rose and rose as he spoke, until he was screaming the last words. He was done, he was so done with everything that had happened the past few days. The past few years. He was over all of the lies and secrets that came with S.H.I.E.L.D.. The inability to know who to trust. If he had to put an arrow through the eye of one of the greatest S.H.I.E.L.D. agents ever in order to get a moments rest from the hell his life had become, he would do it without a second of hesitation.

But Clint never got to go through with his threat. May stared back at him, her face unchanged throughout his entire rant.

Then she raised her gun and shot him.


	6. After Agent May

_A/N: So, we're wrapping things up here. This is the second to last chapter. THE END IS NEAR! Please excuse my dramatic outburst. I was really excited to write this chapter. I got to do a lot of little cameos for some AoS characters, which was a real joy. I hope you all enjoy it. And to everyone who has seen AoU, you are some seriously lucky ducks! I'm going slightly insane waiting for May 1st. This fic, AoS, and Daredevil are the only things keeping me calm. The end of this story should lead into AoU. Whether or not it's right, I have absolutely no idea! But I hope it's entertaining to read nevertheless. _

_Naturally, S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hawkeye are only mine in my imagination. They belong to all of those wonderful people over at Marvel. Feel free to follow, fav, and review to give me a few more distractions as I count down the days. -Krieg_

* * *

**AFTER**

Chapter Five

After Agent May

(And That No Good Lying Bastard Phil Coulson)

_The bright blue eyes bored into his._

Beep.

_A flash of teeth. That God-awful smile._

Beep.

_The laugh._

Beep.

_The wire snaps..._

Beep.

_Falling..._

Beep.

_Falling..._

* * *

Clint didn't move a muscle as he awoke from the dream. Before he even cracked open his tired eyes he knew he was somewhere he'd never been before. A somewhat soft mattress, reclined at an angle, was beneath him and a soft, threadbare blanket covered him up to his waist, leaving his bare chest open to the chilled air.

Beep.

He opened his eyes, following the clip on his finger up to the electrocardiograph that softly and slowly beeped with each heartbeat. A hand drifted lazily up to the soft bandages encircling his stomach.

When he tried to take a deep breath, Clint's chest tightened in pain. He raised his head and glanced down at his chest, taking in the large purple bruise stamped on his shoulder, right over his heart. Groaning, Clint dropped his head back onto the mattress and sighed.

S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, Faustus, Ward, May. It all came back to him in a slow trickle. It was bold of Hydra to take him in and patch him up, Clint couldn't help thinking. Even more so to leave him unrestrained, he noted as he raised a wrist and admired the lack of a strap or handcuff.

Resting his hand back down on his stomach, Clint glanced around again. His eyes moved about sluggishly, his limbs felt heavy, drugged. The room was made of glass on three walls, the one behind the head of his head brick. There was a lab beyond the glass, but as far as Clint could tell, it was empty. His room was filled with all the medical toys a doctor could want. Clint couldn't have cared less.

He didn't know what to do. For once, Clint Barton didn't have a plan. No escapes to attempt, no secrets to uncover. All he wanted to do was fall back asleep. Let Hydra come. Let them turn him into their personal mind controlled minion. Hell, they could come in and smother him with a pillow at this point. He was tired. He didn't care anymore.

Beep.

Clint glared at the monitor, tearing the clip from his finger and tossing it to the side. The machine flat lined and Clint sighed. Leaning up with a groan, he reached across his body and ripped the wires out from the machine. The room fell silent. Clint lay back down and closed his eyes. Content.

The peaceful silence didn't last long. A soft release of air alerted him to the opening of the glass sliding door. Someone entered the room, their movements completely silent, but Clint could sense their presence, hovering at the end of the bed.

"Barton, I know you're awake."

Clint pried his heavy eyes open again. Agent May stared back at him, arms crossed over her chest, the same blank expression on her face as when she shot him... She shot him! Clint became a little more aware, forcing his senses to be alert.

Pushing himself up onto one arm, he muttered, "You shot me..."

May blinked, but said nothing.

"Why am I still alive? You shot me."

Agent May uncrossed her arms and pulled her sidearm from its holster on her hip. Clint felt his weak muscles tense, ready to move, a reaction to the sight of the weapon and the lack of his own. So much for not caring.

May released her clip, leaning it to the side so Clint could see the bullets. Or, not bullets, but something else.

"Icers," she said calmly. "Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting Railguns. They use dendrotoxins, sedate the subject. Hurt like hell, but you'll fully recover in no time."

Clint glanced at the bruise on his chest, then back at May, who was slipping the cartridge back into her gun.

"Why? Hydra really need me that bad?"

"We're not Hydra."

"Oh yeah?"

"We're S.H.I.E.L.D.."

Clint shook his head. "There is no S.H.I.E.L.D.. Not anymore."

"You and I both know that's not true."

"Right, just like how Phil's up and walking around?"

May frowned, which wasn't much of a change from her normal, neutral expression. "He'd like to speak to you, once you're up to it. You've been through quite an ordeal. There is a doctor on hand should you need anything. But you should rest." With that, she spun on her heel and strode back out through the doors, which slid closed behind her.

A soft noise to his left drew his attention. His eyes drifted out of focus as he observed the IV bag, which had just released a clear fluid into the line connected to the inside of Clint's hand.

His eyes fluttered and closed.

Clint's next awakening wasn't nearly as relaxing. He woke in the same manner, but instantly realized that the situation in the room had changed.

Unlike the drug induced state he'd been in earlier, Clint's mind was clear and perceptive. The IV line was gone, as was the electrocardiograph that he'd removed. In fact, all of the medical supplies had been cleared out.

And now there were restraints. A pair of padded cuffs held his wrists against the sides of the bed.

Clint frowned. Had he imagined everything before? Had he even spoken with Agent May, or was that just a conversation he had held with himself in the corner of his brain?

May had said she wasn't Hydra. She had also said Coulson was alive. Maybe she'd never been real after all. Maybe Clint had simply been imagining her, letting her tell him the things he wanted to believe. He was technically an escaped patient from a mental institute. By all standards, Clint was crazy.

Either way, whoever he was with, they had decided he was in need of restraint.

Clint weighed his options. Wait for Hydra, or S.H.I.E.L.D., or whoever the hell's layer he was in to come and tell him what was going on, or to go and find out for himself. Not a very hard decision.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Clint used the fingers on his left hand to dislocate his thumb. A quick jerk and an unsettling _pop_ later and he was slipping his hand out from the cuff. His thumb pulsated unhappily, but of all the pain Clint had endured over the past couple of days, it was extremely mild. He'd probably be stuck having it splinted, but that was a bridge to cross once he knew what was going on.

Carefully using his injured left hand to undo the restraint on his right hand, Clint swung his legs off of the bed. His body retaliated. Whatever pain medication and sedation the IV had been pumping into his system had worn off and the bullet wound in his side pulled painfully. As he tried to stand, his injured leg nearly collapsed beneath him. He pushed it aside, just like he always did. Once he walked a lap or two of the room, the pain subsided and was nothing more than an untroublesome ache.

He spotted a pair of security cameras in the corners of the room, so someone was keeping an eye on him. Clint wondered why no had appeared yet, either to restrain him again or monologue their evil plans. After some observations, he quickly discovered that the walls he had thought were glass were actually thick plastic, very difficult to break through.

He was contemplating the best way to remove a support strut from the bed to pry open the sliding door, or beat the hell out of the walls, when he saw the first people since May, or the figment of his imagination that took the form of May. A large dark skinned man and a much smaller white guy with a stubbly beard. Both had an air of training and discipline about them.

They stopped in front of the door, pressing a few keys in a pad Clint couldn't see to open the door. It slid open with a soft release of air and the smaller man stepped forward.

"Agent Barton," he said, his voice heavy with a British accent and clipped.

Clint raised an eyebrow at the tone. "How can I help you boys?" His eyes tracked their movements, the way the larger man fidgeted, the Brit's hand hovering near the weapon at his hip.

"Well, since you've slipped your cuffs, the boss thought it was about time you two had a little chat," the man replied.

Clint frowned. "Well, how about he comes to me. I've been escorted through enough hallways by henchmen this year. Not a big fan of it."

The shorter man's expression turned even sourer. "Sorry pal, but that's not how we work here. If the boss wants you in his office, then you go-"

As he spoke, the man had reached out a hand to grab Clint's bicep. He didn't give him the chance, jerking his arm back, snatching the man's wrist, and twisting his arm back. The thought of someone touching him, after everything, didn't settle well with him. And equated to a right cross to the nose for the idiot who thought it be a good idea to boss him around.

"Barton!"

"Clint!"

He looked up when he heard his named called, taking careful note that the large man, who had yet to say or do anything, had pulled a weapon seemingly out of nowhere. It was leveled at his head, but Clint wasn't that worried. Why patch him up if they were going to just fill him with holes again? At the very worst he'd get hit with one of those killer sedatives again.

His name had been called by two women, who were hastily jogging through the lab. One was Agent May, the other another very familiar face.

"Aww, Bobbi, don't tell me you're in on this too?" Clint said, tightening his grip on the man, who was struggling under the pressure being forced onto his arm.

Agent Bobbi Morse and Clint had had a thing a couple years back. They had been hopelessly in love, and then reality had hit them like a ton of bricks. The relationship hadn't lasted long and they hadn't necessarily separated on the best of terms.

Bobbi's face conveyed her displeasure at having to deal with Clint again. "Clint, let him go," she said, her eyes flicking down at the man who now had blood dribbling from his nose.

"You can't just bat your eyes and expect me to listen to you Bobbi. Not after everything that's happened. He's my leverage right now. Why should I let him go?" Clint had carefully maneuvered himself so his hostage stood between his body and the gun currently aimed at him.

May stepped forward. "Barton, I've told you. You're safe here. No one's going to hurt you, just let him go."

Clint scanned the faces of the three people before him. He disliked the untrustworthy glare he was receiving from the dark skinned man, his grip tight on his weapon.

"Tell Muscles over there to lose the firepower and then we'll talk," Clint said, jerking his head in the man's direction.

May glanced over at the man, then back at Clint. A heavy silence settled in the room, then she ordered, "Mack, lower your weapon."

The man's face turned hard. "But May, he attacked Hun-"

"Drop your weapon Mack!" May cut him off. Mack's arms sagged down; the gun returning to whatever hidden holster it had come from.

"There, was that so hard?" Clint smirked, releasing the arm in his grip. His attacker pulled away, massaging his shoulder and grumbling to himself.

"Morse, why don't you take Hunter down to medical. Do something about that nose," May said, turning towards the other women. Bobbi nodded, pulling Hunter, whose nose was now gushing blood, through the tiny crowd that had gathered around the entrance of the lab to observe the ruckus.

"I can't believe you actually dated that arse hole."

"You just don't like him because he hit you in the face."

"Well, yeah!"

"Hunter, I've hit you in the face at least a dozen times..."

Clint smiled. Good ol' Bobbi.

May cleared her throat. "Coulson would like to speak with you Barton."

* * *

Clint didn't know what he was expecting. Some small part in the farthest corner of his mind had always hoped that Phil Coulson was alive. He had never seen a body, but he had seen the footage from the attack. Loki had stabbed Coulson, right through the heart. No one could bounce back from something like that.

And yet, after a tense stroll through brick hallways and glass walled labs, Clint found himself escorted into a spacious office. And face to face with none other than Agent Phillip J. Coulson himself.

He was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded behind his back. He wore a suit, one of his hundreds of identical black suits, with a navy tie, and that small smile he always wore when something was funny.

Clint didn't think anything about his current situation was funny. Oh no, he was pissed. And that probably explained everything that happened after he saw that no good lying bastard Phil Coulson.

Clint rushed into the room, grabbed a fistful of that stupid creaseless suit, and shoved the man against the nearest wall.

He was a whirlwind of emotions; anger, confusion, joy; and he let them out in a very un-trained assassin like way. He yelled.

"You son of a bitch! You complete and utter asshole!"

Profanities and insults spilled from his tongue in a torrent. On certain creative insults, Clint would shove Coulson further into the wall. And Coulson didn't do anything. He took everything Clint dished out with nothing more than a solemn, understanding face and a bracing hand on Clint's chest.

"Why would you do that to me?" Clint pleaded, all of his energy draining out of him. His grip on Coulson's clothes slackened, his gaze turning away from the older agent's knowing eyes. "Why would you let me think that I did that to you...?"

Coulson gripped his shoulder tightly. "Melinda," he said, turning his head away from the stricken archer to the agent hovering in the doorway. "I think Agent Barton might need something to eat. And could you ask Simmons to free up some time in her schedule. I want her to take a look at Clint after we talk."

May nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

Phil grabbed Clint's bicep and dragged him over to his desk, depositing him in one of the chairs. Phil seated himself in the other, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he did so.

After his emotional outburst, Clint couldn't meet the other agents gaze. He could feel it analyzing his slouched posture, tired eyes, and defeated expression.

"You're probably wondering if it's really me," Coulson said after a long pause. Clint was.

"I can guarantee that I am really me. Not a life model decoy, not a shape shifter, the real Phil," Coulson continued. "I died when Loki stabbed me. But with a good surgeon and a little resuscitation, one thing led to another and here I am today."

"I feel like those things that lead to other things might be important. I saw the footage Phil, there's no way you survived that."

"A little brain surgery here, a little alien blood there, nothing exciting."

There was a long uncomfortable silence.

"Who all knows you're alive?"

"I never thought Fury would keep something like this from you. I think he worried about your stability. Natasha has known ever since they brought me back. I'm not sure whether or not she has alerted any of the other Avengers."

Another long pause.

"You're different," Clint said at last. Coulson acted as though Clint didn't see the way his hand twitched impatiently and his gaze seemed to drift toward a monitor covered wall across the room.

"So are you."

"Yeah, well, I've had a lot of people screwing with my head lately." Clint sighed. "I've done a lot of things I didn't want to do."

Coulson leaned forward and rested a comforting hand on Clint's knee. "We know about what they tried to do to you in Maine. Natasha and I always knew where you were and getting you out was one of the first things on our to-do list. You don't know how relieved she was to hear you were alright. When we went to Maine to extract you and you were gone? Well, I won't repeat the Russian vocabulary I learned. We cleared out the whole institute trying to find you," he said quietly.

"That was you in the SUV," Clint remarked. Coulson nodded. _Damn Barton, if you would have just waited a little bit longer_, he thought to himself.

"You ran off. Natasha got your call and contacted me. I sent May to go get you. Ward was an unexpected surprise. Guess the high and mighties at Hydra really wanted you fighting for their side." Clint scowled even more at that.

Coulson continued, "We've dealt with people affected by the Faustus Method before. Good agents have fallen to it. The fact that you didn't, Clint, speaks volumes about your strength."

"I don't feel strong," Clint said, finally meeting his eye. "Ever since New York, and Loki, and you... I haven't felt the same. How does someone come back from something like that? Being forced to murder innocent people? Having absolutely no control? I smile, I joke, I fight… but really, I just keeping hoping someone will put a bullet in-between my eyes so I don't have to look at myself anymore."

It was quite the revelation. Clint hadn't even known he felt that way, not until the words slipped out. Coulson's eyebrows raised slightly, a frown creasing his face.

His voice was sharp. "Barton, you need to snap out of that mindset. You are by far one of the best agents S.H.I.E.L.D. ever put through the system. You need to remember that. You need to remember that no matter what guilt you're feeling, you didn't attack the Helicarrier. Loki did that. You were just a tool he used to achieve that."

"Exactly!" Clint exclaimed, leaping to his face, pacing the room like a caged animal. "_I _was what he used to do that. My skills, my arrows, took out those engines. I killed those people. I may not have been conscious, but that doesn't mean it wasn't me."

Clint stopped in front of one of the offices windows, staring out. Coulson spoke from behind him, still seated. "We're going to help you get over this Clint. We have a lot of intelligent people here, people who want you to get better."

"And whose we?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't gone, Clint. Fury left me a toolbox, everything I need to rebuild this organization from the ground up. There are a lot of people, S.H.I.E.L.D. and others, who want to keep the world safe from Hydra. I want you to be a part of it. But you need to get your head on straight first."

Clint nodded, turning around to face Coulson.

"Okay, what do I have to do?" He had had his self-loathing, now he was ready to fight back.

"I'm going to have some of my people take a look at you, make sure there aren't any lasting effects from the Faustus. But what I really think you need right now is some real rest."

That wasn't quite what Clint had been thinking. "What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking we should go visit the farm."


	7. Epilogue- Before Ultron

**AFTER**

Epilogue

Before Ultron

The farm had belonged to Clint for a long time. An old, run down shack of a farmhouse, a barn, whose red paint had all peeled away years ago, and 20 acres of land, Clint had purchased it back around the time he was recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. and had spent the years since turning it into a safe house. Few people knew about, just Clint, Natasha, Coulson, and Fury, who, as it turned out, was not actually dead, as Coulson had so kindly informed him.

The farm was equipped with every defensive and offensive form of weaponry S.H.I.E.L.D. could provide (and even some S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't), yet, it was one of the most comfortable safe houses Clint had ever seen. He's had to use it on more occasions than he'd like to admit, and over those stays he had turned it into something like a home. It was well furnished, warm, and the perfect place for him to rest and recover.

Clint had spent two weeks at Coulson's base. He got to meet the rest of Coulson's team, but spent a majority of his time keeping out of their way, while doing everything in his power to avoid Bobbi and her apparent ex-husband who Clint had given a nice bruised nose named Hunter. Besides those two's icy treatment, Coulson's team had been friendly and helpful. He'd received a room on one of the lower levels and spent most of his time there, while members of the team would stop by and keep him entertained as his stomach wound healed.

Jemma Simmons had not only helped treat his physical wounds, but had helped him find ways to lessen the nightmares that were the brunt of his mental complications. Thanks to her, he now had an acquired taste for tea, which he drank before bed each night. Leo Fitz, a brilliant engineer, had taken a shine to Clint's bow and automated quiver. He had helped Clint fabricate two new arrowheads; one that contained acid and another that would return to him like a boomerang. Clint really enjoyed the second one and found that Fitz and his gadgets were a welcome distraction. Once he was healed, May sparred with him to release his pent up aggression and the team's hacker, Skye, amused him with stories about Coulson and what the team had been up to while Clint had been imprisoned. He left the team feeling more stable than he had since the before the events with Loki.

When he was fit to travel, Coulson had traveled with Clint out to Iowa, where the farm was located. Coulson stayed three days to make sure Clint was stocked with supplies and properly adjusted to living on his own. Naturally, Coulson insisted he be monitored, so Clint wore a thin black wristband that tracked his vitals and brain activity. Jemma was keeping an eye on him from the hidden base.

Clint was sad to see Coulson go. After finding out his friend was alive, he had spent whatever time Coulson could spare speaking with him. The similarities between their stories were disturbing; people digging around in their heads, trying to make them believe whatever best suited their cause. Talking about their experiences was a great coping method. Clint wasn't quite sure what was wrong with Coulson, but clearly something from his life saving treatments had affected him. Clint had tried to pry something out of May, because he was sure she knew something, but the woman was a steel trap. He gained nothing from her.

Clint wished Coulson would've stayed at the farm and taken a vacation of his own. But _Director _Coulson, as Clint now took much joy in jokingly calling him, seemed to have a lot of important, and apparently secret, stuff to take care of and had elected to head back to his team. Clint hoped he'd keep safe. He'd just learned he was alive, he didn't think he could handle him dying again.

The routine at the farm was relaxing. There weren't actually any crops or animals to tend to, since there was no way to care for them when Clint wasn't residing at the farmhouse. Instead, Clint spent his time exploring the forests. Occasionally he would take his bow and hunt small game, which he would cook up for dinner. There was a small town a couple miles away and Clint purchased books from a local bookstore. He would read them out on the porch, beneath large trees in the woods, or by the small pond down the hill. He enjoyed the simplicity. Naturally, it didn't last.

By the time a month at the farm had passed and Clint had fallen into a comfortable, _normal_ routine, he was dragged straight back into the mess he had been fighting so hard to escape.

He'd spent the day in the forest, gathering firewood since he had depleted his supply. A large pile of wood now sat just down the hill from the farmhouse, waiting to be chopped into manageable pieces by the pair of axes lying nearby. Having deposited the last of the wood on the pile, Clint was relaxing on the porch swing up at the house, a cold beer in hand, when his phone rang.

Coulson had given him a cell phone to help keep in touch. He'd only ever gotten calls from the director, and once or twice from Jemma to check in on his health. The number that was flashing on the screen was neither of theirs.

Clint set his beer on the porch rail and answered the call. "Who is this and how did you get this number?"

"Legolas! What sort of greeting is that?"

"Stark?!"

"Who else would it be, Robin Hood?"

Clint remained silent, both slightly stunned and deep in thought. "How did you get this number Stark?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't keep their secrets from me before Hydra. They're actually a lot easier to get at these days, what with their entire server being released to the Internet and all. I really would have thought Agent would have made security the most prominent focus..."

"You got my number from Phil?"

"I got your number from Phil's laptop."

"How do you know about Phil, and S.H.I.E.L.D. for that matter?"

"Well," Stark replied as Clint stood up and started pacing the length of the porch. "There's a whole page dedicated to Phil's..._situation _on S.H.I. . I wasn't very happy to find out Fury decided to lie to us so we go beat up aliens for him through some crappy online blog."

"Yeah, you're not the only one," Clint mumbled in reply.

"You weren't in on it?"

"I was completely compromised. Do you really think Fury would have trusted me with something like that? No, he gave me a nice padded cell."

"Yeah, I read about that. Hope the head's feeling better."

Clint didn't dignify that with a response.

Stark ignored Clint's clearly irritated silence and answered his second question. "As for S.H.I.E.L.D., there have been quite a few occurrences going on in the world that reminded me of our favorite secret spy group. World dignitaries getting murdered, people turning to stone or something like that. I had JARVIS do a bit of digging. It wasn't all that hard to find out S.H.I.E.L.D. was still up and running. A hack here, hack there, bing bang boom, I've got Katniss's phone number."

"Enough with the nicknames, Stark."

"Sure thing, Merida."

Clint pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep, calming breaths. He knew Banner was staying at Stark Tower with the engineer. How he kept the Hulk in while dealing with Stark was a mystery to him. If Clint had been in Banner's shoes, there wouldn't be much left of New York.

"What do you need Stark? I'm sure this isn't just a social call."

"You've got me there, Bard. Hmm, that's my second Lord of the Rings joke. I'm running out of ideas..."

"Stark!"

There was some rustling on the other end of the line and the loud noise of air rushing past, like Stark was driving with the top of his convertible down. "Yes, yes, hold your horses." Stark mumbled something, impossible for Clint to hear, but he heard JARVIS's name.

"Okay Barton, here's the deal. We're getting the band back together."

There was a long silence.

"What?"

"The Avengers. Despite the awkward circumstances that led to you joining, you know, trying to kill everyone and all..." Clint clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the billionaire's baiting. "You're still on our roster Barton. We could use your eyes."

Clint stopped his pacing, staring out over the acres of land that came with the farm. He was surprisingly happy with the calm life on the farm, but as his eyes drifted over to his bow and quiver, which were leaned up against a tree stuck full of arrows, he knew what his answer would be. Despite everything that had happened to him, Clint was a fighter. Nothing could keep him down long and no matter how content he was with his new normal life, Clint needed the action that came with being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Came with being an Avenger.

He took a large, bracing breath through his nose, releasing it slowly. "Alright Stark, you have my bow."

"Oh ho, Legolas has a sense of humor, does he now? Does this make me Frodo?"

Clint smirked to himself. Okay, maybe Stark wasn't bad _all _of the time. "So, what's big enough to need the Avengers?" he questioned, leaning up against the porch railing.

"Hydra."

Clint frowned. "I thought Coulson was dealing with them?" Although Clint was hungry for a bit of revenge, he wasn't keen to be dealing with the people who'd tortured him so soon.

"He was," Stark acknowledged. "But they've found the head honcho and decided to call in the big guns. Man goes by the name of Strucker. Apparently he's been dealing with some gifted people. Coulson doesn't want to take any risks."

Clint agreed with the logic. If there were powered people helping out Hydra, there was no one better than a god, a super soldier, and a Hulk to take care of it.

"When do we leave?"

"Well..." Stark paused as if consulting something. "The Quinjet should be landing in about three minutes to pick you up. A farm, really Barton?"

Clint wasn't even going to bother asking how Stark had found the location of the farm. "It's probably the most secure and discreet safe houses out there. Unless an entourage of paparazzi is following you out here. That might be problematic."

"Don't get your feathers in a bunch, birdie," Stark said as Clint moved across the yard to retrieve his bow and arrows. He was mentally composing a list of the gear he would have to bring along. Fitz had designed him a new uniform, his old one probably locked away in some Hydra compound. He was looking forward to giving it a test run. "You're super-secret layer's super-secret location will remain super-secret."

Clint hopped back up the porch steps and pushed open the screen door. He could just make out the sound of the Quinjet's engines off in the distance. There was a large, black panel next to the front door inside of the cabin, and Clint pressed his hand up against it to activate it. When the panel started glowing, Clint tapped a couple of icons, disabling the laser grid that encircled the property. It wasn't long after that before the jet appeared over the treetops, a small, humanlike figure flying not far behind. As Clint exited the building, the Quinjet came to a slow descent and landed not far from the porch, the ramp lowering to reveal the two biggest topics of every major news station; Natasha and Captain Rodgers.

Natasha smiled as Clint stepped forward, mirroring her smirk. Both were decked out in full combat gear, Rodgers' shield held loosely in one hand.

"Hey Natasha, Cap," Clint said as he tossed a wave to Doctor Banner, who was calmly seated towards the front of the Quinjet, and Thor, who sat opposite him.

"Barton," the super soldier said with a nod. "Have you got a suit?"

Clint's grin widened. "Yeah."

"Then suit up."

**THE END**

* * *

_A/N: So, this is the end. I want to thank everyone whose read, reviewed, favorited, and followed. You guys rock and I couldn't be more lucky to have such wonderful people who love Marvel as much as I do reading this piece. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see Age of Ultron. I hope everyone enjoys it! Who knows what fabulous fan fiction will be inspired by that movie. I can't wait to read, and to hopefully write, it. Once again, thanks for the support over the past weeks. I love you all! -Krieg_


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